OPTIONAL POETRY

The standoffish cat is asleep now, doubly distant. Behind the hanging blinds is an unlit lot. The only things that move are branches, and the second hand of the wall clock that isn’t turned back yet. No balmy night, no quiet stars, just the hum of the refrigerator and a glass of water— the wind isn’t enough to stir me, no, so here I am still, alone and in love